Did I just write that? It must be a reflection of the book I’m reading, The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch. Described as an intellectual thriller, it is ponderously philosophical, groan, but I have sympathy for the hero, a 58-year-old divorced, frustrated wannabe writer.
What I was actually thinking when I wrote that title is that my trip is coming to a close. It’s a bittersweet, in-between time, still here physically but already gone mentally. I catch the bus from Ferragudo to Lisbon tomorrow morning. My bag is packed, waiting by the door. There will be one last night in a hotel near the airport, then, several time zones and an ocean later, home.
I’ve done everything I’d hoped to and a whole lot more. I even had a dental issue dealt with for $73 that was going to cost over $500 in the U.S. That savings affords me another round-trip flight somewhere. I’m already imagining my next adventure.
But right now, I’m sitting on the upper terrace in a dreamy, reflective mood, bathed with sunshine softened by fluffy clouds.
The cats were here first, but they don’t tolerate company, so I have the entire space to myself.
What I know about who I am has been confirmed over these past twenty days. I am a solitary soul who enjoys the companionship of friends but has no capacity for the vulnerability required of intimate partnership. And I’m OK with that. There is vast freedom, no unmet expectations, and whatever shoulds or shouldn’ts exist, are self-inflicted.
That said, I love the comradery of a shared meal, a morning stroll, an evening movie, which is what I’ve experienced here. The best of all worlds.
This fishing village on the Atlantic coast has been a sweet respite from Minnesota snow and brutal cold. I’ve missed the diversity of cultures, languages, and attitudes afforded by travel. And there’s something about palm trees in February that makes me very, very happy!
But I’m ready now. I’ve had my fix. Until next time…adeus e obrigado, Portugal!
Holding a place at the very apex of my to-do list for Portugal was a river cruise to the Arvad vineyards. But the trip was touch-and-go, dependant upon the tides and the weather. At one point, I got a cancelation email.
Come Wednesday, the sun appeared, the tide flowed in, and YAY! It was on again. Let’s go!
Nine of us strapped into life preservers and trailed down the concrete steps of the pier into what appeared to be an old fishing boat. Later, as our captain extolled the beauty of the landscape, the history of the river, and pointed out the chimneys of dozens of derelict sardine factories, we learned that he used to be a fisherman, and this was iindeed his old fishing boat.
Speaking of chimneys, white cranes are plentiful in Ferragudo. Every single one of those towering columns boasts a toupee of twigs and grass, home to Mom and Pop Crane.
These birds have many sounds: caterwauling like cats in heat, raucously cawing like crows, and a loud clacking, a warning when another bird approaches. I captured one such event in the above video.
We chugged along in the boat for about 45 minutes, listening and learning, waving to other boats, enjoying the companionship of our group.
That’s our captain in the sunglasses.
Six of the passengers were going to the town of Silves for a walking tour. A Dutch couple and I would be dropped at the Arvad winery and picked up after the Silves tour.
I’m behind the couple, disembarking. The golf cart driver from the vineyard is letting the captain know they are ready for us.
We waved the boat off and climbed into the golf cart. It jiggled and lurched up a washed-out gravel road. I tried to catch a few photos while hanging on for dear life.
We were met by the sommelier in an elegant setting on the terrace. He explained the layout of the vines, the soil, and the pruning, which is happening now. Then, led us to the barrel room.
The ceramic vats are made in Sicily. In themselves, they are flawless works of art.
Our host explained that the name Arvad means refuge. When Phoenicians brought wine-making to Potugal, they found refuge here from pirates.
The Arvad logo is shaped like a Phoenician clay amphora and that is what was used all those centuries ago to age the wine. Some were lined with pine pitch and resin. The majestic ceramic urns that line the walls of this barrel room lend a hint of their essence to the wines aged in them.
Then, it was time to taste. A Brazilian woman had come by car, so there were 4 of us. The couple had a table together, but the Brazilian woman and I each had one with our own loaded charcuterie boards, baskets of bread, olive oil, dishes of sea salt, and wine glasses.
We began. The whites were crisp and fresh. I could picture myself sitting in the shade on my deck on one of Minnesota’s suffocatingly hot, humid days, sipping a glass of this icy cold white.
The rosé had an exciting, tingly quality. I’m not a fan of rosé in general, but I liked the way it slightly numbed my lips.
I was eager to taste the red from a dark-skinned grape called Negra Mole. I had done my research and expected a full-bodied, flavorful wine. But, no. It was also light and fresh. Bright, I guess, would be a good word. Not sulky or brooding like a cabernet sauvignon.
When I’d tasted four wines, generously poured, and eaten more of the treats than was wise, I went to explore the wine shop where our golf cart driver was on duty. Come to find out, there was a more robust red from the Negra Mole grape. I added a bottle of that variety to my bill.
Then it was back to the boat and home fast with the ebbing tide.
We’re approaching our pier by the white buildings.
What an unforgettable day. My journey is complete. Anything else from here on in is the cherry on top, and there’s always room for another cherry!
Is it when there isn’t time enough left over to write about it? If so, I’ve been acing it in the I’m having too much fun department.
But this morning, it came to a screeching halt in a dentist office here in Ferragudo. I’d cracked a filling several months ago and had referrals from expats for this particular clinic. It’s an all-female practice which I instantly loved. The procedure was pain- free from start to finish, and the price…
Let’s back up.
The crack happened before I left Minnesota. I’d gotten it X-rayed with my usual dentist. The X-ray cost $136.00, and the quote for a replacement filling was $500. But I’d run out of time before my trip, so I decided to get it done in Portugal.
At my first appointment here in Ferragudo, they took X-rays and scheduled me for the procedure in two more days. When I went to the counter to pay for the X-ray, the receptionist who is fluent in English said, “No, of course you don’t pay. First consultation always is free.”
Gobsmacked, I left in a daze, wondering how on god’s green earth they survive.
Today, I lay in the dentist’s chair while she and her assistant carried on a nonstop conversation in Portuguese while drilling, pickaxing, and flushing my old filling out then installing a new one. It took an hour and fifteen minutes, and as I said, there was zero pain at any time.
When it was clear she had finished and I once again went to the counter to pay, I was told the bill was 70 Euros. At today’s exchange rate, that’s $73.00, 85% less than I would have paid at home. Somehow, that $73 pays for the X-rays, the time with the dentist, her assistant, the receptionist, their office space, furnishings, and the materials and equipment she used for the repairs to my tooth.
How can the price difference be so vast?
Even though a visit to the dentist can hardly qualify as fun, saving that much money is very satisfying!
A trip to the mountain hideaway of our landlords, Maria and Jorge, however, was fun on every level.
Three days ago at 1:00 sharp, a car horn beeped outside the house. Grandpa (Maria’s father) had arrived to pick us up. ReAnn took the front seat, and I slid into the back with Pee, Grandpa’s terrier.
For the next 45 minutes, I white-knuckled the hand grip as the car maneuvered hairpin curves from valley up to mountaintop down to valley and up again.
When we arrived, I was given a tour of the cabin.
It’s one main room, a bathroom with a composting toilet and a shower that’s even more creative than mine, and stairs to a sleeping loft.
The meal was ready, and we dined in true European style, lingering for hours over wonderful food.
It began with bread, cheese, prosciutto, marmalade, and wine.
Then we had a stew of chicken, with chickpeas, carrots, and large slices of soup-soaked dense bread that did not disintegrate. Along with that dish were two kinds of baked sausages and chunks of pure fat.
I skipped the fat, but the rest was delicious! Maria explained.
After the main course, a basket of oranges appeared. They have 100 orange trees and a few olive trees on their property.
After oranges, Maria brought out a homemade sponge cake. Jorge served cappuccino, and we sipped a beautiful port wine to finish.
Grandpa regaled us with stories. He often started with a question, for example, “Do you know how the Germans discovered American spies in the war?” We didn’t know. So he told us it was the way they used a fork when they ate, and he demonstrated the difference.
We discussed politics. They have strong opinions about the current state of affairs in the U.S.
They talked about their children and grandchildren, and so did we.
Grandpa was a civil engineer and designed airports. Jorge owns a construction company that builds houses and does renovations. Maria teaches chemistry. Their cabin was a roofless ruin before they decided to resurrect it. Grandpa has a 4-bedroom house in Ferragudo, and Maria and Jorge have a big beautiful home there, too.
Then, it was time to pile into the car and head back before dark.
Grandpa decided to return a different way, so we had an extended tour of the countryside.
How lucky I am to be here reaping the benefits of ReAnn’s people connections and having so much fun!
And it continues. In my next post, I’ll tell you about yesterday, the river cruise to the vineyard and the most elegant wine tasting experience ever.
The grating, raucous mewling of cats sounds overhead. A siege of cranes casts brief shadows. I’ve never known a bird to have so many voices. One moment, I’d swear they were crows, the next, tormented felines in heat. But the strangest of all is a clacking racket, like drumsticks on the rim of the drum, warning me as they stand guard in their massive nests.
Their presence is a constant in this seaside town, and I love to watch their effortless drift overhead as I lay, winter skin starved for warmth, drained of color, open and naked to the sky like a fileted fish.
I’m on the upper terrace of the two-story, whitewashed house that is home for another two weeks. Clouds, accompanied by a chilly breeze, roll across a merciless sun. I’ve been baked to done-ness. Any longer and the sizzle of my burning flesh would have driven me inside. The clouds have saved me. I smell rain.
Yesterday, I walked four miles. My destination: an art shop across the river in Portimao. From Ferragudo, that city is a luminous, shimmering confection, a distant Shangri-la.
The two miles to get there took me past hundreds of boats, a grazing horse, across a neverending bridge, and through impossibly narrow streets.
I finally arrived at Artisticline-Comercialização Mater.Desenho and stepped through the doorway into an alternate universe. Mouth agape, breathing halted, I stood transfixed by the explosion of creative energies surrounding me. This was far more than an art supply store. Better even than an art gallery, this was an artist’s dream. Canvases were on display everywhere done in acrylics, watercolors, oils, and charcoal. Others on easles were works in progress.
A polite Bom dia brought me, blinking, back to earth. Over the course of the next half hour, I made the acquaintance of Ana Cardoso, artist, art teacher, and proprietor of this corner of heaven.
If my right shoe hadn’t been too tight, I would have floated home in a bubble of wonder. Instead, I hobbled and limped the two miles back, ran a blistering hot bath, soaked my aching foot, massaged it tenderly, and promised myself a pair of bonafide walking shoes.
Tonight, I’ll be attending a fundraising dinner for the local charity thrift store. Everything in this secondhand shop is 1€ – approximately one US dollar. If I have an Achilles heel, one weakness that exceeds all other weaknesses, it is thrift shopping. This den of temptation is one block from where I’m staying. I have singlehandedly enriched the business, stopping by on a daily basis, and I never leave empty-handed.
Today I bought the outfit I’ll wear to the dinner tonight. 2€.
A breeze off the river sent chilly fingers through my thin shirt. I’d walked to the first stop of my morning stroll, the Charity Thrift Shop, bought a book, then hurried back to the house for another layer. Now amply fortified, I set out to find the one fabric shop in Ferragudo. At least, I hoped it had fabric.
As soon as I turned away from the river, the incline veered steeply up, and my pace slowed proportionally.
A sewing machine on a sign suggested that might be the place I was looking for.
Stop #2.
I stepped into a hive of whirring needles and saw a note: Alterations, posted by the cash register. A young woman slid from behind her machine and hurried toward me. For the next few minutes, we earnestly and unintelligibly burbled at each other until she whipped out her phone and typed in, Please tell me what you want, and handed it to me.
Do you have small piecesof fabric for sale? I typed back.
Come and speak to the manager at noon, she replied,
Thank you. I said, and left. Dead end.
I continued my uphill climb, craning my neck to gaze at the whitewashed walls of The Palms, streaching heavenward. Later, I googled and learned that The Palms – Ferragudo is a private “closed condominium” providing peace, tranquility, and security to its privileged owners.
As I read the description, it was abundantly clear that my privilege was of some lesser variety than what was required to live there. I moved on.
The Palms was the summit. It was all downhill from there. And yet, there remained no shortage of charming gateways, stairways, and pavered roadways to delight the eye.
Destination #3
Club Nau on the beach. A sign at the roundabout directed me up another hill. This one offered views of a different nature.
And suddenly, I was at the top with sand, sea, and sky arrayed in splendor below.
Down the steps and left on the boardwalk brought me to the beachy vibe of Club Nau.
For a blissful hour, the ocean whispered secrets, sailboats, like giant white birds, skimmed the surface, and cranes circled, cawing and mewling overhead.
The panorama of peace played out while I sipped my blackberry SPARKLING CIDER! That’s the name I couldn’t remember in the video! Sparkling cider.
The slow meander home showed me the back side of the castle and weather-and water-sculpted rock formations.
A row of fisherman’s huts huddled against the cliff.
And I soaked it all in like a giant, starving sponge.
Getting old is worth it to have these magical days of falling wider, higher, and ever more deeply in love.
My black shirt welcomes the rays of morning sun. I’ve come to the upper terrace to draw its potted plants and tropical trees, the rusted wire fence and stained plaster. A cat slinks by on the ledge above me, casting a furtive, golden-eyed glance over his shoulder to make sure I don’t see him. It’s another bright blue day in Ferragudo.
The village, a quintessential masterpiece of white and terracotta Mediterranean architecture, festoons the mountainside and embraces the river littered with anchored fishing boats. An ancient castle, brooding and watchful, guards the broad expanse of water where the Rio Arade spills into the sea.
I’m in love.
And enchanted by the slower pace, the friendly smiles, the flirty men who could never get away with their playful repartee where I’m from. He looks me in the eye. A hand rests casually on my shoulder. He points me in the right direction then says, “I show you. Not far,” and motions me to follow.
I’m in love.
Yesterday, I walked a mile to the big grocery store, Lidl. (Is it L-eye dl? Or Liddle? Or something that isn’t either of those? To my ear, the language sounds more Germanic than Romantic.) Just inside the entrance, one is accosted by breads – oh, the breads! I’m hopeless when presented with an array of artisan loaves, rustics, garlic-buttered baguettes, herb-infused rolls, and something that translates as bread of the gods. I have no shame, no resistance whatsoever. But I must be mindful of the load I will carry home on my back. One baguette and one irresistible nod to the dieties, then, with gourmet salad makings and a bottle of wine, my bag is full.
Today, lunch at a Thai restaurant in the square. The server made it clear that the Thai cook was on holiday, so we could not order from that menu. But tapas were available. I chose nachos. What could be tastier than beer with crisp tortilla chips, guacamole, beans, and – a scant hint of cheese if you looked hard enough – on a sun-drenched day in Portugal? The answer: two beers!
I’m in love.
And, I am privileged to be able to travel. I’m healthy, my mobility is balanced and sound, and my mind is functional. My finances are just enough to allow this indulgence, and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I am mesmerized by other cultures – thrilled to watch and learn – hungry for the joyous adventure of it all.
Sharing the magic with those of you who care to check in with me now and then is most satisfying, and your comments add to the pleasure. Thank you!
Now, for a sunshine fix on the terrace. I’m banking the rays knowing only too well what I’ll be returning to in a couple of weeks!
I didn’t know what to expect, but Portugal is beyond. Way beyond.
I’ll start from the beginning…
After the 3-hour drive from my home in the frigid deep north (my sister informed me that it was -35°F yesterday morning), I spent the night in Minneapolis. The next day, my daughter took me to the airport to catch my 1:15 p.m. flight to Philadelphia.
I cleared the checkpoints and was at my gate. It was a smaller plane for the domestic flight and definitely no frills. But we landed in Philadelphia safely and on time.
I was in terminal F and my next flight left from Terminal A. Meanwhile, I had a 4 1/2-hour layover, so I asked at the information desk which way to Terminal A. She pointed then said, “It’s a 25-minute walk.”
“Twenty-five?” I repeated.
She nodded. “But, there’s a shuttle right through those doors.”
I thanked her and took the shuttle.
Somehow, my flights always seem to be at the farthest gate possible. I found it, bought a roasted turkey wrap and bottled water, and settled in to wait.
They started the boarding process an hour before departure, which was a good thing because this dreamliner plane has the capacity for 240 passengers. Boarding that many takes a while.
Once on the plane, we taxied for about 5 minutes, then sat for another hour on the tarmac while the plane was de-iced.
I had a window seat with a perfect view of the left wing.
At last, all traces of ice and snow removed, we were off to Lisbon.
Six plus hours later, the coast of Portugal came into view, a sight for tired eyes.
My friend, who has been here 5 times, had sent explicit instructions. Before leaving the airport, go to Vodaphone for an eSim.
I found the Vodaphone booth and got in line behind 8 others. I stood there…and stood there…while each person’s process took at least 20 minutes. At that rate, I’d miss the bus to Ferragudo. I connected to the airport internet and put in a quick WhatsApp call to my friend. Her advice: Forget the eSim, just get to the bus.
OK, will do. So, I pulled up my Uber app.
Where are you going?
Bus Station.
Now or later?
Now.
Your visa is being charged. Your driver, Lucido, is 4 minutes away. White Nissan, license plate….
He arrived. He spoke no English, and my Potuguese contains approximately four words. I was whisked to the bus station and dropped at the curb. Obrigado, thank you, that’s one of the 4.
I asked a woman lined up in a queue for one of the 20 or so buses where the ticket office was. Found it. Went to the wrong window. A woman asked me where I was going.
“Portimao.”
“Follow me.” I followed her and discovered that she was the ticket agent. “Your bus leaves in 5 minutes,” she said. She printed the ticket then, again, “Follow me.” She led me to the bus.
From that bus window, I photographed the ever-changing Portuguese countryside.
Lisbon
I don’t know the names or the history of what I saw through that window leaving Lisbon, but it was magical.
Then we were in the country.
Cranes in their nests.
What a tour! Olive orchards, sheep, cork trees, figs, I had planned to sleep on the bus. Who can sleep in Wonderland?
My friend was waiting when we pulled into the station at Portimao. Twenty minutes later, we were at her house. She gave me a quick tour, then showed me my private suite (bedroom, bath, and balcony). By then, I’d had 2 hours of sleep in the past 40 hours.
“We’ll go out to dinner,” she said.
“If I’m awake,” I replied.
In a heartbeat, I was dead to the world. At around 5 p.m. she knocked.
Who? What? Where am I?
“Come downstairs when you’re ready. There’s wine and cheese. Then we’ll go to dinner.”
If you aren’t familiar with Portuguese wines, you should be. She had a bottle of red and a white, mixed cheeses, a baguette… Who needs dinner? I thought.
But an hour later, we were out the door and on our way to Restaurant Aria for A) more wine, B) an appetizer of marinated olives, and then…
Baked Octopus.
It was DIVINE.
When our engaging, single, middle-aged waiter with two cats told us there was one slice of raspberry cheesecake left, we decided dessert was essential. My friend had the cheesecake. I ordered a carob, fig, almond cake that was…well…you remember the scene with Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally? It was THAT good.
We got back to the house – a very short walk – and I slept so well…!
I can not tell you how happy I am to be far, far away from ice and snow exploring this Portuguese fishing village. The journey was so worth it! I sunned stretched out in a lounge chair on the upper terrace amid cacti and palms today. Ahhhh…bliss!
Oh! I will slip the snowy bonds of Earth And dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ll climb…
That isn’t quite how John Gillespie Mcgee begins his poem, High Flight I took liberties with the wording based on my circumstances. But in a few days, I will escape dreary Minnesota winter and fly to Portugal for three weeks.
My whole body tingles! A friend I met in Bali spent seven weeks of Covid in a house in Ferragudo in the Algarve region. Now she’s there again and I’ll be renting a room from her for my stay.
From the house, it’s a 7-minute walk to the beach. It won’t be swimming weather. The Atlantic seems to always be cold, and Portugal registers temperatures between 55° and 65° this time of year. But that’s perfect for meandering the endless coastline with sand in my toes.
A few days ago, I was researching the area and found a river cruise up the Arvade to one of the many vineyards in the region. I couldn’t book it fast enough! The tour of the vines, a premier wine tasting with a charcuterie board of local cheeses, meats, and sausages, and a visit to the barrel room, not to mention the 1 1/2-hour boat ride there, and another 1 1/2-hour back sounds absolutely divine. As I said, my whole body tingles!
I’ve decided this will be a trip of unlimited creativity. I packed a set of 72 pens that have a fine point at one end and a brush at the other.
I have my mixed media tablet ready for sketching.
My passport has been updated, my universal plug works all over the world, and the little book of passwords – I can’t forget that. I also bought new pens for journaling. You can never have too many pens!
I’ll have a carry-on and a backpack. I like to travel light.
My friend works at a thrift shop there. I can only imagine the kind of damage I’ll do to my Euros at that place.
As beautiful as the snowcovered Minnesota landscape is, after the initial rapturous day or two, I seek alternatives: friends in warm places, open escape routes, and as soon as something manifests…
I’ve been in airports. Lots of airports. And quite a number of them many times. Singapore’s Changi began to feel like my second home since I almost always had a long layover there on my trips to and from Bali.
Changi Airport
So, when I try to remember where I had my first taste of liver pâté, all I can say is that it was in an airport somewhere. Charles DeGaulle in Paris would make sense since a French chef in Normandy is credited with creating that robustly earthy treat. But maybe it was Heathrow. Best guess, it was somewhere in Europe.
I’ve intentionally purchased liverwurst a few times, just for that memorable flavor. But it’s a shabby substitute.
My cousin with a PhD. from the University of Minnesota raises cows, pigs, llamas, chickens, goats, and sheep on her farm nearby. My sister recently bought the meat of a whole lamb from her. I overheard Gwen saying that she was going to cook the liver for her dog.
“You’re what? No way! May I have it? Please?” I begged.
So today I made the most mouth-wateringly delicious pâté…no, really, it’s divine! I only had to substitute Greek yogurt for cream and dried herbs for fresh ones. It was ridiculously easy.
I served it with crackers when the Codgers arrived for 5 o’clock social hour. As finicky and judgmental as they are (all of them are gourmet cooks) they agreed it was edible, even tasty in small doses. At 250 calories per serving, small is the sensible portion!
The 1.4-pound liver made a large batch. But Google said it freezes well. So that’s where it is now, a year’s supply of Old World Lamb Liver Pâté, frozen in my fridge. Every guest that passes through my doorway will get a taste. But don’t let that deter you. I do want visitors…really, I do! 🤢
Icy dervishes whirl across the field outside the window. My weather app describes today as dreary. Seriously? How about cloudy? Knowing there will be an absence of light is enough information. Cloudy states a fact. Dreary assumes a negative emotional response. Not everyone finds an overcast day dull, bleak, lifeless, and depressing. Maybe I welcome this sunless day to curl up with a book or chop and sauté in a brightly lit kitchen, filling the house with the nurturing aromas of a hearty soup. Just stick to the facts, AI. Don’t tell me how I should feel.
The first time dreary popped up on my app, I chuckled. I was used to seeing cloudy, mostly cloudy,intermittent clouds, and snow. Clear days here in the far north aren’t designated sunny, they’re just called cold. The new word felt like a whimsical departure from the norm and made me smile. But today’s dreary followed a long string of overcast and cloudy days. My first reaction was, “Go away!” (Like the nursery rhyme: Rain, rain, go away, come again another day, little Sherry wants to play…) My light-deprived inner child was annoyed.
So, I was already in a pissy mood even before getting out of bed.
After journaling in front of my cozy fireplace and pivoting to a more positive mindset, I decided to spend the day cooking.
Mom used to make Italian Wedding Soup. I’d found a recipe online and skimmed it for my shopping list and purchased the ingredients. But true to form, I’d neglected to read the details.
Remembering how delicious it was, I decided to make a double batch and set to it, mixing Italian sausage and ground beef, egg, breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, and onion. When it was the desired consistency, I glanced at the instructions and did a double-take.
Form the mixture into about 40 – 1/2-inch wide – meatballs.
One-half inch wide? The size of marbles? Forty?You’ve got to be kidding! For the next hour, I sat rolling sticky blobs into teeny-weeny balls that more accurately approached 3/4 of an inch wide. I filled a 15 x 20 cookie sheet with 108 meaty marbles.
All that effort and half the mixture still remained in the bowl. I shoved the pan in the oven and made an executive decision. The rest would be four times the size of those wee nuggets.
The minis were done in minutes. I left them to cool while I prepared their jumbo siblings. That went much more quickly. But, when I tried to turn the oven back on to bake them, nothing happened. After two years of cooking, my forty-pound propane tank had run out of gas. The line from a Seinfeld episode screamed in my head: No soup for you!
I put the sheet of large raw meatballs in the freezer and went outside to unhook the propane tank and load it in my trunk for the next trip to town. The not-so-dreary day got worse. The tank was frozen fast in place. It wouldn’t budge. I wrapped my arms around it and tugged. I wedged myself between it and the house and pushed. I cursed it in Spanish, Indonesian, and English and kicked it forgetting I had metal ice cleats on my boots. No damage was done, they only marred it a bit cosmetically. In the end, the tank won and I quit.
After the frustrations of the morning, a warm blanket and a good book sounded like heaven. I cuddled in and fell instantly to sleep.
Today was to be mostly cloudy but warmer, according to my app. Mid-afternoon, armed with a bag of Ice Melt Salt and a quart of boiling water, I once again went on the offensive with the tank. I tucked salt around the base and doused it with hot water. At first, it didn’t appear to be working. But then… there was a slight jiggle when I tugged. With renewed vigor I grabbed it. Back and forth, back and forth, I rocked that baby loose. Success!
Tomorrowis predicted to be above freezing followed by four days of cold. I’ve positioned a cement block over the frozen spot and the freshly filled tank will sit atop that from now on. Problem solved.
In the midst of all this, I had a Human Design reading. It was a birthday gift from my daughters. Among other things, I discovered that I am an Experiential Learner. Is that a polite way of saying I have to f*** it up first before I get it right? That would explain a lot!
I hope you’re keeping warm and there are no drearies on your weather app.
writing for self-discovery 
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