How it started
The last couple days are likely to end up as a blur of emotions and experiences in my memory, so I’m hoping to get something down before that happens. Where to start . . . hmmmm, well I plan to write about our time in Fragoselas when I’m in a different frame of mind, so maybe I’ll start this where we left there. We got a fairly early start from Fragoselas, planning to leave at 9:30, but actually leaving at 10. Not too bad for the likes of David and me. We had around 5 1/2 to 6 hours of driving ahead of us, a rainy day, and a marginally successful recovery from the after-effects of drinking the water (which I don’t recommend). Anywho, down the mountain we went. Then up another mountain, Then down that mountain. Then up, well, you get the idea. For a girl who is not a fan of swervy-curvy roads, I did pretty well. Of course, David was doing the driving so I pretty much had to sit there, intently watching the GPS on my phone and warning him of upcoming hairpin turns, so he could slow down a wee bit and ease my terror. There’s a chance I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t all that terrifying and we saw some really cool mountain villages along the way.
We’d decided to stop along the way at (you guessed it!) a grocery store and also have some lunch. David had made us lunch from the leftover Piri Piri chicken from the night before and I think he might have been envisioning a stop with a delightful view to unwind for a minute while we ate. As it turned out, however, I was a little bit grouchy by this time and I convinced him that we should just dine in the car while parked in the Continente parking structure. Sometimes, I’m a real dream to travel with. After our quick lunch we were back on our way to Evora. Well, not really Evora. We were staying in a small town about 20 minutes away from Evora called Montoito. Tired upon arrival, we were happy that the neighbor brought us the keys within minutes.
The Arrival
The house in Montoito – okay, so we were a little worried when we found it. Tucked into the middle of a row of colorful doors in a long, very old looking building on a narrow, cobbled road, was our door, number 16. The distance between the doors was maybe 8 or 10 feet. It seemed like not much apartment could be inside.
What a surprise when we went in, though. The house was much bigger than it appeared from outside and it was simply charming. The decor looked a little cluttered in the pics we’d seen on VRBO, but the effect when there was perfect. Books and trinkets graced the shelves and created an old-world charm. The kitchen was tiny, but well equipped and the rest of the house seemed to invite lying around and cozying up, as if at home.
You see what had happened was . . .
On with the story. I’d made Beef Bouguignon for dinner on Christmas and we had decided to heat it and some bread up for an easy-peasy, delicious dinner. I told David I was going to reheat it on the stove rather than the microwave, because I just like the way it heats better. Am I going into too much detail here? Maybe, but you’ll understand why in a minute. While the bourguignon warmed on the glass-topped gas stove, I buttered the bread and put it in a pan on the stove to warm and soften. Things were going along swimmingly. Soon we had dished up our dinners and moved to the little living room to eat. After moving the rug out of the way, because we wanted to be sure not to damage it, we dug in. And that’s when it happened. From the kitchen to our left, we heard an explosion and glass shattering. Looking over, we saw that the stove’s glass top had shattered, and the glass, the metal rim that had framed the glass, and the pan that had warmed the bread had been thrown across the width of the kitchen.
More than a little freaked out, we tried to figure out what had happened. David jumped into clean-up mode and started sweeping up all the glass so we wouldn’t cut our feet, while I, quite helpfully, started googling the make of the stove to see if this was a problem that others had experienced. During clean-up, David noticed that the glass had been hinged at the back and started to wonder if it was a cooktop at all. Not finding anything about this model of stove suddenly exploding, I slowly began to realize that this was likely a case of operator error. Big error. Shoot. It was too late to contact the host, so after cleaning up, we sat down to watch a movie while I guzzled some wine. Such tasty wine.
Almost like it never happened, almost
We woke up to a gorgeous morning the next day and I thought I would very much like to come back to this little place someday, if they would have us. We had to pull ourselves together rather quickly and check out by 11. We did have time to enjoy the view from the back patio for a few minutes. I loved the wide-open terrain and wondered aloud about returning some summer. David lamented that it was likely all brown and ugly during the summer and I laughed at our differences. Differences aside, we both enjoyed the beauty of the small patio on this winter morning.
My confession
It was time to bite the bullet. We returned the key to the neighbor and told her what had happened. She was still nice, but did seem upset. We told her we’d contact the owners to let them know and we got on the road. After only a few minutes, I started crying and couldn’t seem to stop. I just felt so ashamed to have damaged someone’s house and I couldn’t fathom why I hadn’t noticed the hinges on the glass. Plus, is there even such a thing as a glass-topped gas stove?! David was sympathetic and he told me I’d probably feel better after I fessed up to the owners. That’s exactly what I did. Full of sincere apologies, I let them know what I’d done and offered to pay for the damage. Incredibly, the owner’s first response was to thank me for my honesty. He then agreed to contact me when he knew how much the repair would cost. I don’t know what I expected, but his response was just kind and understanding. And I felt better.
The Wandering Suz 