To my left, vineyards spread endlessly to the horizon, interrupted only by patches of yellow wildflowers. To my right, a row of weathered, rural Portuguese homes line the empty cobblestone road.
I stop in my tracks at the sound of laughter and a bouncing ball carried from the backyard of one of these homes. I peak into a gap in the fence, spying a young boy kicking a basketball against a brick wall and an older woman stretching a cotton shirt over a clothesline. She has short gray hair, a red checkered apron, smile wrinkles, and blue glasses covering her crows feet.
I smile and keep walking, glancing back over my shoulder at the sweet scene. The older woman catches my eye and asks, “agua?” She reaches for my water bottle and leads me into a kitchen with a table set for 12. On the TV, a live stream mass at Fatima plays. I show her pictures of our classmates at Fatima and the candlelight procession. She squints at my phone and tears up. I notice the cross dangling beneath her collarbone.
Her name is Ana. Her husband, Manuel. That is the most we could communicate via language. Manuel gives me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks that translates to “Welcome. I am happy you are here.”
The source of the bouncing noise is Ze, a 12-year-old boy with a shy grin revealing electric-blue braces. He takes English at school, but was too self-conscious at first to converse, a feeling I empathize with. He holds up a cracked iPhone with Google translate displaying, “Come eat with us?”
Every Sunday, the whole family gathers at the grandparents for a traditional Portuguese lunch. Cecilia and Paul arrive, Ze’s other set of grandparents. Shortly after come Sophia and John, Ze’s aunt and uncle, with baby Leonetta. John is an electrical engineer and Sophia is an orthodontist. She did Ze’s braces. They speak English and translate for me. Ze’s mom and dad join us downstairs with his three-year-old brother, Raul. The age range was 2 to 87.
Cecilia, the paternal grandmother, chases down Ze and Raul forcing their little arms into jackets to despite their protests that it is hot. Sofia calls us in for lunch and prayer. For the first course, we consume a yellow octopus dish that Manuel caught in Lisbon. Manuel showed me a photo of himself grinning proudly with the lifeless octopus. Next we devoured a hearty rice, potato, meat stew, followed by a tray of pudin, with glittering crystallized sugar. We drink wine that their neighbors made on their vineyard, followed by coffee and port.
The meal was prepared entirely by the women. They set the table, cooked, and systematically served each dish, barely off of their feet long enough to enjoy the meal before they were collecting dishes to wash.
This family deeply values tradition, religion, and community. It was such a warm and welcoming environment. I am envious that they gather every Sunday. In my family, such an occasion is reserved for holidays such as Thanksgiving or Christmas. I wish I could bring Ze home with me and give him a taste of an afternoon in Los Angeles.