All posts by Ginnelle Elliott

Guess how much our meal cost?

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Portugal is pretty awesome for a bunch of reasons, but I have to say that the cost of living is amazing.  My priest was doing a church service in a stunning little town an hour and a quarter away from Lisbon.  He goes there monthly to attend to the English speaking community in the town of Caldas da Rainha.  My girls and I hung out in a beautiful park, complete with a small lake where you can row a boat on, until he came back.

I researched a place to eat dinner near the historic center of the town.  I found a highly recommended Italian place situated on a beautiful square.  We were the first people in the restaurant, which made me nervous, except we were eating at 7pm and the Portuguese don’t even think of eating until 8pm at the earliest.

We ordered appetizers:  garlic bread and cheese knots and a massive caprese salad.  All were delicious.  By the time we finished our appetizers, the restaurant was full and lined out the door into the square.

My priest and I had drinks.  Beer and sangria.  The girls each had soda.  For the main course, both girls had a margherita pizza.  I had a fabulous spinach and Gorgonzola cheese penne and my priest had a seafood linguini, so full of fish it was crazy.

Finally, we finished the meal with tiramisu for the adults and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream for the girls.

What do you think this abundant meal set us back?  I know in Canada or the US, it would have been at least $100…if not much more.  Did you take a guess?  Wait for it…the whole meal including tip was €43.  That is about $50.  Hard to believe.  Now, I think I want to drive to Caldas weekly, just to eat like royalty for pennies.

 

Our dog died. I can’t stop crying.

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My priest didn’t come home with us to Canada this summer.  He intended on visiting us for two weeks, while we stayed for a whopping six weeks.  Instead, he stayed home in Portugal to look after our 16 year old Bichon Frise, Piranha.  Piranha wasn’t just a dog to us, she was an extremely important family member.  We didn’t think she would be happy without us and we didn’t want her to suffer.

There were days over the last 16 years, that I didn’t want to get out of bed.  Days when I wanted to bury my head and cry, but I was never alone…Piranha was by my side.  My priest might have been busy, or the cause of my anger, my daughters might have been at school or oblivious to their mother’s pain, but my dog wasn’t.  She just loved me.  As she got older, she didn’t want to cuddle as much, but she was still by my side.  I was her favorite human.

Last Friday, my family went out for the morning.  We came home four hours later to a barking and happy dog.  Piranha jumped up on me and followed me out to the grass.  She was bouncing and wanted a treat.  I said, “come on sweet girl…let’s get a treat.”  I gave her two of her favorite soft treats and she hungrily ate one and then fell over.  My priest screamed.  I saw her legs splayed in an unnatural way.  I scooped her up and thought maybe she was choking.  In her puppy days in San Francisco, I successfully did the Heimlich maneuver on her when she choked on a pen.  This time, I rushed her outside, just in case she puked up everywhere.  While still in my arms, her body released and she peed.  I felt the life go out of her.  She had lost all body control and she was gagging.  My priest was still screaming.  In shock, scared and freaked out…his yelling brought my daughters to the scene.  They were crying and Maggie started praying intensely.  “God, please save my dog.”

We drove the three minutes to the vet.  I yelled at my priest to stop crying.  He was frightening the dog.  I continued to tell Piranha that she was okay and that I loved her.  She died in my arms in the car.  I felt it.  We still rushed into the vet hysterically.  My whole family together for the last time.  Our puppy in my arms.  The vet could see our desperation.  Everyone could.  He listened to Piranha’s heart and said she died less than a minute ago.  I don’t know how he knew that, but I didn’t ask.  I just cried.  We spent time holding her.  We said our goodbyes.  The vet pulled up her file and said he had never heard of a Bichon Frise that old.  We knew that.  We were chasing the European record for the longest living Bichon…we were only 9 months away.

We arranged to have her cremated and then we left her wrapped in Maggie’s special blanket made for her by my mom.  It was only right.  Then we left incomplete and heart broken.

I know that I prayed for her to die naturally.  I never wanted to have her put to sleep.  Thank God she didn’t make me do that.  She died of a massive heart attack.  When we came home, the second treat she didn’t eat was still on the floor.  Her dog bowls, her bed, her blankets…she was well treated.

I had a friend once tell me that having a dog was his favorite part of his life.  He loved his family, but he loved having something love him unconditionally and he loved coming home to a barking and happy dog.  Our home is less happy now.  No welcome home barks.  No shadow in the kitchen when I am cooking.  No foot warmer  in my bed.  No one barking for cheese or trying to steal pizza.  Just the humans.

People who have never had a dog might not understand my heartache and to them I say I am sorry.  I am sorry that they haven’t opened their hearts to the love of an animal.  It is a special bond.  It is one you undertake knowing that it will end in heartache, but you do it anyway.  You accept all the love and affection and you hope you return to your animal that same kindness and unconditional love…but in reality you can’t.  Piranha lived only for our family.  To be with us and to love us, but we have lives and we don’t always make our dog our number one priority.  We tried hard.  When we missed the mark, Piranha didn’t care.  She loved us the same.    Rest In Peace sweet girl.  I am better for having known you.   Thank you for loving me and letting me be your human for 16 years. ❤️🌈🐾

We love BIG.

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I have been gone from Portugal for almost 4 weeks. My priest stalks us daily. Anyone who happens to wander past the cottage has to speak to him on FaceTime because the kids are always busy and more interested in playing with their friends than chatting with their dad.
He is on FaceTime with us during meals. We eat and he chats. He watches the evening news with us as someone holds up the iPhone so he can see the stories.

My priest misses the noise, the constant singing, dancing and chaos…so he tries to make up for it by being here with us, if only by FaceTime.  People don’t really understand that he didn’t make it home this summer to look after our dog, but that’s because they don’t understand our particular brand of crazy.

Our family loves big. We get mad at each other, we fight, but we always love. We love our near toothless 16 year old Bichon Frise. When it was suggested by the vet that we don’t leave her for too long, my priest stayed home. He loves big. He knows I would worry obsessively about Piranha if we were all gone, so he sacrificed. We do that for each other.  In this world, where everything seems disposable, including relationships, we strive for love.

I will admit that I have a hard time watching the world I grew up in looking so different. Friendships change. Parents do not appear responsible for their children or their actions, but a lot of this I equate to loving big. When you love big, you can’t be selfish. It is not all about you. It is about your family, your community and your planet.  When I watch kids litter, or be cruel to one another, I get sad and then I get mad.  It is our job as parents to show kids the power of love.  We need to be there for them, supporting them, correcting them, holding them accountable and most importantly teaching them what it is to love.

To love big, it takes a lot more than words.  It takes commitment and patience and perseverance.  My priest is alone thousands of miles away from the family he adores because we want our children to understand that love isn’t limited to humans…we love our dog big because we are committed to her, we don’t give up and everything and everyone is worthy of love.  We need to spread this message because I feel like daily I see a world where the opposite message is evident and that scares me for future and for our planet.

Love big people, it feels good.

Letters from camp

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My little love, Maggie, has been at overnight camp for the last two weeks across the lake from our cottage.  I sent her lots of writing paper and envelopes to send me notes.  Pippa is at the same camp, but as a day camper.  I charged Pippa with picking up notes from Maggie daily.  She was also in charge or smuggling in contraband.  A candy here a soda there…all pretty tame.  I had my nephew, also a day camper, make sure that Maggie stayed safe and away from boys.  Pippa’s best friend was on hygiene patrol:  braces clean and hair brushed.  It was an intense mission, but the kids loved it.

So every day Pippa brought me home a little note from her big sister.  The first day the note said she didn’t miss anyone at all.  Lovely.  Then the subsequent days, I would receive little bits of info.  Stuff about food, one about a cute boy, a few about a broken camera.  Then she went on an all-camp overnight trip off site.  The next day I received this:

In case you can’t read it…”the tramping trip was great.”  What the hell is a tramping trip?  Was my 11 year old daughter out tramping it up?  Drinking, wearing booty shorts and picking up boys?  I certainly hope not, but until I pick her up…my mind is running wild.  The daily letters might have been a bad idea.

Chasing a new record.

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We left our priest in Portugal so that the girls and I could enjoy a glorious Canadian summer. My priest wanted to join us, but our dog is too old to travel.

We left her several times for a week, but for more than that…not a good plan. So, he bit the bullet and is on Piranha patrol.  Piranha doesn’t love my priest. She tolerates him when no one else is there. They are lonely together.  The other reality is that he had to work and he wanted his time off for European travel…plus we have a new goal.

Piranha is currently 16 years old. We recently read that the oldest Bichon Frise on record that lived in Europe was 17 years old. A new record is within our grasp! Piranha turned 16 in June. The vet claims she is in great shape for the shape she is in. She is blind, deaf and only has 11 teeth left, but she walks fine and she still eats. She is in no pain.

We could actually win this thing!  My dog just has to survive my priest caring for her for 6 weeks. Every time I FaceTime, she is crying.  She is always looking for me, but apparently settles down at bedtime.  I feel awful, but our new goal is giving my priest real drive and focus…keeping our dog alive.  Our puppy mill dog from Iowa could outshine all of those posh European relatives of hers.

Piranha is a fighter and I have to say, I always admire determination, even when it is in a dog.

Threatened Childhood…not here.

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Recently,  I read an article that rated Portugal as one of the top countries in the world to raise children.  Initially, this article struck me as odd. My daughters would tell you that the children of Portugal, in general, can be pretty physical.   Both of my girls have been involved in minor altercations this school year, with my younger daughter getting into a serious beat down.

Of course, addressing aggressive children isn’t one of the main criteria in determining the value of a country for families.  I am sure they used some scientific way to determine that Portugal is an awesome place for kids.  Today, I witnessed a pretty solid reason.  It was the Day of Children in Portugal.  In towns and cities across the country, free festivals celebrated kids.

When I decided to take the girls to the festival, and some of their friends, I had loaded my wallet with small change to pay for rides, bouncy castles, the standard ‘fair attractions.’  When we arrived in the main square of Cascais, we were greeted by a serious party.  Balloons everywhere, music, bouncy houses, bikes, trains, skateboards, wooden stilts, homemade wooden board games…the list continues.  My children’s eyes were like enormous pancakes scanning the scene and preparing to conquer.  I braced myself for crazy.

They first saw a skateboard/scooter/rollerblade course and headed over.  Maggie has never rollerbladed before, but she waited in line and got suited up.  This included a hairnet so that there was no chance of getting lice from the helmet sharing.  This brought tears to my eyes.  I fear nothing more than lice (sadly, this statement is pretty much true).  The young girl who assisted Maggie was awesome.  She looked genuinely pleased to have my gigantic daughter lean on her and she was truly excited when she finally seemed to skate alone.

The girls won prizes at another booth and even planted pots of vegetables to take home and grow in their own gardens.  All of this cost me nothing.  NOTHING.  There wasn’t even vendors selling crap.  No food trucks.  Just tent after tent of free activities and games.

I was starting to wear down because normally I tell the kids that I will only spend so much money and then we leave. I didn’t have a good barometer as to when I should escape this festival because it was costing me nothing.  They ran from one cool thing to the next.   Maggie was even interviewed by a Portuguese radio station that allowed her to answer in English and praised her when she spoke the little Portuguese she knows well.

If today is any indication, children are celebrated in Portugal.  I didn’t witness one parent yelling at their child, nor did I see any kid acting bratty.  I am sure it happened, but thankfully I avoided anything that might mar my glorious afternoon.  People were happy.  They were enjoying a sunny day with their offspring.

The only downside was that I never found food to feed my kids because there were no commercial elements at all.  At first, I was thrilled to not spend money, but we did get hungry.   If my priest had been with us, he would have gone insane seeking out food….the man gets hungry.  We satisfied ourselves with some churros (Portuguese invention) and ate lunch like Euro trash at 3 pm.

 

According to Save the Children:

Top 10 Places Where childhood is least threatened

1 Norway
1 Slovenia
3 Finland
4 Netherlands
4 Sweden
6 Portugal
7 Ireland
8 Iceland
8 Italy
10 Belgium, Cyprus, Germany, South Korea

👙 and living the dream

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I wear a one piece swimsuit. I didn’t always, but after kids I just thought I would spare the world from seeing my belly.  After a week holiday on the beach in southern Portugal, I realize that I am the only woman in a one piece swimsuit.

I remember reading an article in a US blog last spring about not being embarrassed to wear a swimsuit on the beach and enjoy life with your kids. I am never embarrassed to wear a swimsuit because I really love to swim and I wouldn’t deny myself or my girls the pleasure of having a swimming partner.  Here, in Portugal, the women not only wear swimsuits, they wear bikinis and they embrace their shape. Some women should, “put that stuff away,” as my eldest daughter says, but they don’t. They walk the beach letting all of their parts hang out.  You see caesarean and surgery scars, stretch marks…nothing is too much.  I will admit at first it is overwhelming.  Scary even.  Now, I wish I could live as uninhibited.

Not caring about your ‘jiggly bits’ as Bridget Jones calls them, must be freeing.  Unfortunately, it is occasionally carried too far.  We saw a lot of fully naked older men and way too many boobies.  Pippa claims that “tinkle berries” should never be seen in public and I would have to agree.

You won’t catch me sporting a tiny bikini any time soon, but I will admit that I really appreciate the self confidence and positive body image that the Portuguese women have.  Unlike North America, young girls are not striving to look like the Kardashians or the next great super model.  They are hanging out at the beach as themselves with their parents and grandparents and isn’t that beautiful?

Priest on vacation.

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I have been extremely slacking in my blogging.  Life has been a little crazy.  Maggie finished school.  Pippa has been busy surfing.  I went on a cork tour…I know everything about cork and I promise to tell you the exciting details…my friend came for a week and then she left to walk the Camino trail (she wanted to know if my priest had ever considered the walk…as we packed for a beach vacation).  We went first to Seville, where Pippa became obsessed with flamenco dancing.

It was 108 degrees and we toured the city like champs.

Then we drove to a small town an hour and a half away from Seville to see awesome caves.  The tour was great but not a word of it was in English and I got in serious trouble for taking pictures.

We arrived home to pick up our dog, Piranha, to take her with us on the last leg of our vacation…the Algarve.  We needed Piranha with us to help her celebrate her 16th birthday.

Now we are chilling at the beach.  Enjoying 100 plus temperatures.  My priest won’t get out of his swimsuit and he is insisting on becoming a champion body surfing.

Life is good.  More crazy stories to follow.  For now…back to the sangria. 🇵🇹🇪🇸

Scary year round nativity

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The girls and I had lots of time to wander around Lisbon on Friday.  My priest had a meeting and we decided to explore.  His church is right across the street from a  beautiful  garden.  It is a large and diverse park.  Playground for kids, ponds, turtles, cafes…just lovely.  We always seem to get in the park and just stay there.  I decided to motivate my squad to go to the Estrela Basilica on the other side of the park.

We see this enormous and stunning church constantly, but we never go in.  We know that it was built by Queen Maria I as a fulfilled promise after giving birth to a son in 1779.  Sadly, the church was finished 11 years later, after the Queen’s son had already died of smallpox in 1788.  My girls found the entire history really depressing.  Yet, they were deeply impressed that the Queen was so excited to have a child.  Pippa wanted to know why I didn’t go to such lengths to celebrate my pregnancy with her.  Sorry kid, I guess things have changed in a couple of hundred years…plus, sadly, I am not a queen.

In the back of the church, behind the crypt of Queen Maria was a hidden room.  We saw a few people headed in that direction so we decided to follow them.  I will say having a priest for a dad, makes my children very comfortable in churches and exploring them.   In the newly discovered room was a huge glass enclosure with the largest and most detailed nativity scene I have ever seen.  Sure, it has the  manger setting…Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus and the animals.  The three kings are there too, but then it goes a little wild.

It depicts scenes from everyday life and Bible stories.  There is slaughtering of pigs, people doing laundry, men gambling…you get the idea.  Everything is made from either terra cotta or porcelain, with cork pieces lining the ground as earth.  One scene severely disturbed my children.  It was the slaughter of the innocents.

Herod,  the Roman appointed king of the Jews,  order of the execution of all male children near Bethlehem so that the he would kill the newborn King of the Jews, as told to him by the Wiseman.  This gruesome story was depicted in all of its horror in the nativity scene.

Look closely and you can see children being cut across their throats as their mothers scream.  Babies are dangling by their hair as men try to kill them.  This was a crazy brutal and lifelike display.  My kids know this story because they have studied it in Sunday school, but to see it in this form was powerful.  A nun was watching my children transfixed by this scene.  She came over and tried to encourage them in broken English  to look at other parts of the sculpture.  She took a flashlight and highlighted some of her favorite parts.  The kids  humored her but they couldn’t get their eyes off of the dead or dying children.

Finding this nativity scene was purely an accident.  It is unlike anything I have ever seen.  My family isn’t likely to forget this visit anytime soon.  When my girls told their dad what they had seen, my priest was crazy jealous.  He had wandered into that church many times before, but he went to admire the architecture and the art…he didn’t go with an adventurer’s eye.  I love that my kids discovered this magical room. They ended up showing me one of the largest and oldest nativities in permanent exhibit in the world.  Pretty cool.

We became hashers.

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A friend has asked our family repeatedly to join his hash group.  For those of you who are not British, a hash group is a running and walking group.

Wikipedia defines a hash group as this:

The Hash House Harriers (abbreviated to HHH or H3) is an international group of non-competitive running social clubs. An event organized by a club is known as a hash, hash run or simply hashing, with participants calling themselves hashers or hares and hounds.

Our group met on Saturday.   Members of the group do not go by their given names, but rather by names given to them by other hashers.  It was like entering a crazy foreign land, while living in a crazy foreign land.  The “virgin” members are asked to identify themselves.  My youngest daughter was sure to tell the whole group that she was pretty sure her mother was not a virgin.  Thank you for that Pippa.

The instructions are given by the hare.  He is the member who organized the day’s adventure.  There are loads of markings placed on the trail.  They are made from chalk powder and some are meant to just screw your over.  You walk down a long trail, only to find out that you are meant to turn around.  The kids loved the deception and trickery.  Our hash was 6 kilometers.  We were wimps or walkers.  The runners or rambos had a 12 kilometer run.  Intense hill climbs were everywhere.

The team meets every fortnight and the Lisbon group is made up of people from all over the world.  At the end of the adventure, the virgins stand in the center of a circle made by older members.  We had to introduce ourselves.  Then we were given cups of beer.  The girls were given water.  We had to chug the beer while the hashers sang a song.  If the beer isn’t done by the time the song ends, it goes on your head.  I proudly out chugged my priest.  He looked like a chump.  It was glorious.  To our dismay, Pippa is a really good chugger.  I fear that she may be the life of the party at college.  Maggie, a little dorky like her dad, didn’t finish her water so she had it poured over her head.  All in good fun.

We have to go on 5 hashes and then we are named.  The group meets and comes up with less than flattering names that identify you for the rest of time.

I loved these hashers.  It reminded me of my days at Trinity College.  A little initiation, a little beer, crazy names and lots of laughter.  Do yourself a favor and see if your town has a hash club.  It feels good to belong.