High on olive oil in Gafanha da Boa Hora

"Boa noite, não falo português, têm uma mesa para uma pessoa?" This has become my signature entrance whenever I step into a restaurant here in Portugal. I lay it all on the table, for lack of a better paraphrase: "Love me or make fun of me, dear host, but I am here to eat, and I'll do it solo." Also, if you could, kindly speak slowly.

This particular host, who appears to be in his late 70s, probably hasn't understood a word of my charming introduction (not his fault), but I'm also quite sure I’m not the first foreigner to set foot in his family-run establishment. So, he remains silent, points to a table, and meticulously prepares it at his own pace. Once he's done, what appears to be his daughter approaches and inquires if I'm Spanish. "No, eu sou Italiano." She looks at me some more while still clutching the oversized menu close to her chest, as if I were expected to guess the day's offerings.

Vladivostock-sur-mer or Praia da vagueira?

The message is clear.

"Ahh... Italiano. Todos os cidadãos têm a mesma dignidade social e são iguais perante a lei." Alright, this is Article 1 from the Portuguese Constitution, while in reality she's clearly given me two dish choices in a Lusitanian dialect I'm not entirely familiar with – oddly enough. So, I go with the second option. "Mmm... obrigado." Not only did I have to guess, but I had to do it in a foreign language. Fortunately, we reach a bipartisan agreement on the wine selection: half a litre of the house wine to start with. She disappears into the kitchen muttering something about "very fresh fish" (I caught that part), so I lean back and relax.

When the food arrives, I give myself a pat on the back for my excellent choice: bream with potatoes, an intriguing combination of greens, chickpeas, and breadcrumbs, and a delightful concoction of olive oil, more greens, and mysterious bits I care little about identifying. Everything is delicious, but the lady isn't entirely satisfied; she wants me to drizzle spoonfuls of olive oil (and whatever floats in it) over the potatoes. She points at it and lingers by my side until I comply, twice. It's good, very good, though a tad addictive, and I end up pouring it on my bread too, which isn't exactly aligned with my dietary plan. Bearing this in mind, and to her surprise, I order more fish, and she returns with some lovely squids and more of that enchanting elixir, which aids me in devouring everything in less than 5 minutes.

See? I don’t lie.

Goodbye, beachwear figure

Upon her return, I can see genuine astonishment (but why?) and a fleck of motherly pride in her eyes. She turns to the couple having lunch next to me and says something along the lines of, "The Italian is eating everything!" To which they gesture for me to stand up and admire the culinary treasure they have on their table: a delectable fish soup they encourage me to try. I politely decline, claiming I'm full, though I'm already high on olive oil, so who knows what else might end up on my table. 'Best to quit while I’m ahead,' I quip, resisting the temptation of another course.

Speaking of oversized portions, I recall a time years ago, on another part of this stunning coastline, when I ordered seafood risotto, and the waitress deemed it "too much" for me. At first, I thought it was a translation mishap, but I know my appetite well and I am aware of my immense potential, so I insisted. Minutes later, she returned with a family-sized bucket and grinned sardonically at me. True to my word, I polished it all off, even if it probably shaved a few good months off my life expectancy.

The Portugal they don’t want you to see!

I digress. My stay here is drawing to a close. It never ceases to amaze me how many people are still camping in mid-December, and this place is no exception. It's half-full, and the lovely Maria Goretti (a name that's a guarantee), the owner of this piece of land just 100 meters from the ocean, has taken me under her wing. It's a shame she doesn't drive because reaching the urban maze at night is no picnic (or maybe it is, depending on your preferences).

Wherever I may roam.

The choice lies between a dimly lit country road cutting through marshland and a serene path along the dunes, stretching the entire 1300 meters between my motorhome and the non-migratory folks with their bars, restaurants, and supermarkets. I relied on my mobile phone's torch, with the sound of the ocean noticeably closer than earlier in the day, no lights in sight, and a glimmer of hope that the improvements promised by the renowned smartphone maker, whose symbol is a partially devoured apple, are authentic, and I won't be left in pitch darkness before reaching a table to rest my weary feet under. All has gone well so far, I'm still alive, and I continue to marvel at the ocean, the fine sand, and the space between the next job appraisal and me.

Morning view at sunset.