All our bags were packed, we were ready to go… meaning two carry-ons packed to the gills. We made through our first trial, which was dealing with FAT changing Starbucks to Peet’s, which would be fine except HOW WERE WE SUPPOSED TO HAVE EGG BITES FOR BREAKFAST NOW but life is full of disappointments, and one must roll with the punches. ;)
A quick jaunt to Denver, a little less of a quick jaunt to Newark, a little scare when every single flight in and out of Newark was delayed, and not a not so quick jaunt across the Atlantic and bada bing bada boom… Sao Miguel Island, Azores. If we’re rating airports, this one gets an A+. We were A. Off the plane and B. Through customs and C. In a cab and D. All of the above in less than 7 minutes.
We went on a full Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride (hang on for your life, everything is fine) because the cab driver was trying to beat his own personal best time. I think he did it, gold medal! We arrived at our hotel to find it to be the cutest little boutique hotel you ever did see, just a seven room situation amidst a pineapple plantation. I’m sure you’re thinking, “Boy, I bet you wanted to learn all about harvesting pineapples for your first hour on the island. That’s probably too much to ask for…” Friend, you’d be wrong. It’s not too much to ask for. Ask and ye shall receive. Not that we asked for that… we probably would have asked for creamer with the coffee. But anyway, we went on a pineapple greenhouse tour with the jolliest hotel manager Edgar, along with the other tourists and fellow pineapple enthusiasts. I don’t remember much about what he said (accent paired with early morning paired with not an overwhelming interest on my part), but I can tell you pineapple harvesting is NOT easy. There you go, it’s like you went on the tour yourself.
Edgar held on to our luggage for us and we wandered Ponta Delgada to our hearts’ content. We mostly said things like, “Get out of the street!” (to each other, not strangers, to be clear) and “This place reminds me of Croatia… and Kona….” There was lava rock everywhere, random pockets of dark sand beaches, buildings of old ruins (“I bet that place was a convent.” “Nunsense, it looks like a canning factory.”), and a very safe and comfortable feel as we just wandered.
Jolly Edgar let us know our room was ready around one and we headed back to the pineapples. You know what didn’t head back? My flip flop. Broke down right there in front of the convent cannery and I got to play my favorite game, Don’t Step on the Glass in the Street.
We got situated in our room (balcony, please and thank you) then headed on our first mission to find new flip flops. This led us to the mall… found flip flops, a couple espressos, and I won 5 euros on an Azorean scratcher which, coincidentally, was sold at the same register as the espressos. Score and score, Azore.
The day just kept on going with a hot tub in a greenhouse situation (with some new friends from the early morning harvesting tour, of course) to kill some time before our dinner reservation at the hotel at 7:00. I know what you’re thinking… what a bunch of night owls! But no, that was the earliest they serve dinner, that was not our choice. We had a great meal and called it a night.
Day 2… Helena from the tour picked us up right after our Edgar-made breakfast. Our street-facing window was very handy… I just stuck my head out the window and asked the lady who was pacing outside if she was looking for us. She was. Off we went on a full-day island adventure with a couple other travellers… a group from Indiana (possibly Illinois, now that I’m thinking about it, but I’m also thinking you don’t care, which seems a little rude, but I’ll get over it) and a solo traveler from Italy. We basically did all the things… some viewpoints, marveled at a mountain that we couldn’t see due to no visibility, marveled at the mountain that we suddenly COULD see because the weather changes faster than an Azorean cab ride around here, visited some hot springs, got caught in a rain storm at a waterfall, said ooooh ahhh to the geothermal activity and the in ground pits for cooking, complimented Helena thirty million times about how pretty her island is with all the hydrangeas everywhere, etc etc.
Lunch was near Furnas, which included a stew of various meat cooked in the underground pits using volcanic activity. Worst explanation ever, I know. But just picture holes in the ground, the smell of sulphur, the sight of steam rising everywhere, and there you have it.
My favorite town was Nordeste, and I’d like you to take a moment to read that name out loud. Then I’d like Google to tell you how to pronounce it. Prepare to be dazzled.
I know you didn’t do that task, but we’ll move along.
The next morning, we had our last breakfast with Edgar and headed to the airport to catch our flight to Terceira. It’s a short 40 minuter, so I wasn’t even in a full REM cycle before we landed. It was blue skies all around… but you know who wasn’t around? Francisco, the cab driver we set up to pick us up. We found him eventually, even though we weren’t certain it was him. It went like this…
Shandon: Are you Francisco?
Francisco nods.
Shandon: Thomas sent you?
Francisco nods and takes our luggage.
Shandon and Laura shrug and think he seems pleasant enough.
END SCENE, roll credits.
In the cab, I was trying desperately to get Francisco to understand we needed to stop at a pharmacy while Shandon was connecting with Thomas, the Airbnb owner who sent us Francisco.
THAT scene went like this…
Laura: Podemos parar em uma farmacia?
Francisco nods. Laura shrugs.
Shandon on phone: Hi Thomas!
Thomas: Hello! Did you find Francisco?
Shandon: Maybe. We’re not sure.
Thomas: Does he have a mustache?
Shandon: Yes.
Thomas: That’s him.
Francisco nods. Shandon shrugs.
End Scene 2, roll credits.
After a quick stop at the pharmacy to play a game of charades (you just hold your own throat and look sad and then fake cough until someone in the pharmacy but not the pharmacist translates for you and it’s all good), we found Francisco both speaks a LITTLE English and truly cares about following the law of the road. He gestured to a seatbelt-wearing Shandon to unbuckle. “In back, no need. Forget about it.”
In Biscoitos, Thomas was waiting on the side of the road to take us to the Airbnb, which he renovated from some ruins… down a steep hill, round a corner, through some foliage, bam. Ruins with an ocean view. One of the notes to the place gave a heads up about these little gnat things that are around. But do not worry, they would only circulate in the middle of the room then leave at dusk. They also know better than to land on any surface. Lies, right? WRONG. These friendly fellas mind their own business, staying right in the center of the room. If you’ve ever forgotten and walked through the center of the room then apologized profusely to a gnat for being in its space, you and I have something in common.
Things went a LITTLE south at first. It’s fine, it’s fine, everything is fine. You know what everything is NOT at 3 pm in the small area of Biscoitos? Open for business. We couldn’t find an open restaurant, a market, a human, or a cab. We eventually made it to the Biscoitos swimming hole area… made of lava rock with people parking their towels wherever… we ended up there not on purpose but because we thought they might have food. Not until 7 pm, folks. Lemon ice cream, yes. We weren’t hungry or grouchy or frustrated, promise. We made it to a market, a taxi driver from a business card at the register got us back home, and we called it a day.
Except the fun continued! At about ten pm, into the dark abyss, I said (in a totally pleasant and not at all cranky voice), “What in the world are you listening to?” Shandon thought the sound was coming from MY phone. We both thought the other was listening to some sort of gremlin jabberwocky horror situation. This led to us peering out into the dark night. Shandon said she saw a bird that had to be making that sound, I believed her because it was certainly better than any alternative, and we fell asleep to the sound of crashing waves and gremlin.
The next day we were to meet Francisco at the top of the road to take us to Angra. No Francisco. When we called, he said he was “close” and hung up. When we called again, he said he was “close” and hung up. We were contemplating if he meant his services were “closed”. It was very confusing but he showed up, he made up for lost time on the road to Angra, we broke the laws of the road by definitely buckling up, and we made it to our tour pick up spot, which was at a hotel at the Angra marina.
Picture it, Terceira, 2024. We had driver Gui, Pat and Malcolm from London up front, and us in the back. Off we went on another island adventure… this time, blue skies all day except for when it wasn’t for a few minutes. This place keeps you on your toes. We saw all the viewpoints, chased all the craters, learned all about some battles in some bay, had the best lunch at what I’m pretty sure was Gui’s cousin’s restaurant, visited a cave, etc. We passed through countryside where the community was coming together for two important purposes: have a barbecue and also choose the bull to participate in that night’s bull run. Don’t worry, we would not have to just wonder which bulls were chosen… we lived it. But that’s a story for another paragraph.
Gui took us back to the Biscoitos swimming holes and said, “We’ll be here about twenty minutes since you guys aren’t prepared for swimming.” To which Pat (the mom of the van) said, “We’re not?” We actually WERE prepared, Gui, thank you very much. Obrigado, etc. The four of us found a particular empty swimming hole, thinking, “Oh very nice, no other people.” A lifeguard showed up out of nowhere saying we had to get out. Plot twist: it was not an empty swimming hole. It was an occupied swimming hole. OF A PORTUGUESE MAN OF WAR. Anyway, I love this place… they just had us go one little pool over and all was well. When that little guy was gone, we got the all clear to swim wherever we wanted.
Speaking of creatures… Gui was oh-so-casually discussing the flora, fauna, and fledglings of the area when he happened to mention some birds that sound a little funky that are in the area. IT WAS THE GREMLIN. Around here, they call them Cory’s Shearwater… well, technically they probably call them something in Portuguese, but here we are. To confirm it is what we had heard, he played a YouTube and Shandon and I got to relive our nightmare right then and there. Mystery solved.
Gui eventually dropped us back off in Angra, which is a very cute and lively little town. We wandered around a bit, headed down to the water and back, practiced target shooting with the police in the little square… seriously. That was not your imagination. The police had a station set up where you could check out all their weapons while you were waiting for your cab to take you to a nearby village called Porto Judeu for a bull run.
We shared a cab with our old friends Pat and Mal to Porto Judeu, where we found a roof to sit on. I don’t know about you, but I prefer all my bull runs to take place where I can sit on a roof. The band showed up in the street, along with the entire village, and we watched the matadors and the bull and all the men of the village who ran toward the bull, then ran away from the bull, then figured they might as well run toward the bull again. It was quality entertainment… but not as quality entertainment as us trying to communicate via WhatsApp with a cab driver on our location. We ended up on some side street, confused as all get out, when a friendly villager offered to talk to the driver. He was there in no time, we dropped Pat and Mal in Angra, made it back to Biscoitos, and said good night to all the Cory’s Shearwater that were just getting started for the night.
So anyway guys, in the epic battle of human vs. stovetop coffee percolator, we finally got a point! Thank you, thank you. How dare you presume we had to YouTube it to confirm we were on the right track. After a slow morning on the nature preserve, we got picked by Francisco and he took us without incident to our last tour.
Our van of fun visited a cave, another cave, a cave via lava tubes, a volcano you access via a cave, and then, to change things up, a cave. We were able to go down a chamber into the heart of the volcano, which (apparently) is only possible with two volcanoes in the world. Soooo we’re at 50% of explored volcanoes. Which is an F if we’re grading papers but an A+ in our hearts. There were even hairnets with the helmets, and there was this kindergarten teacher in the group who was pretty pumped about the Azorean dedication to lice prevention. Spoiler: it was Shandon.
Our tour guide dropped us off in the main square of Angra, which was exactly 156 meters from the restaurant with our reservation. If all you’ve been waiting for is one more example of how these are the friendliest and most helpful people, I got you. When making a reservation the day before, we guessed it would be close to 7:00. The lady said, “If you come early, come early. If it’s after 7:00, come late!” You can probably guess which side we were on… 5:30 dinner. We had a most delicious tuna plate and caught our last cab back from Angra.
Headed back to Sao Miguel to leave the islands. Headed home but leaving a little piece of my heart here…
