Dear fellow travellers
We arrive in Ponta Delgada after dark. The taxi from the airport to the city centre only takes around ten minutes: Everything on the island of São Miguel is small scale. But even if the taxi ride into town is short, we cannot reach our destination because the narrow streets leading down towards the harbour and our hotel are blocked.
“Christmas,” the taxi driver shrugs as he drops us off as close as we can get to the hotel. “Oh, and the marathon.”
We drop our bags at the hotel and walk down towards the sea. The streets are illuminated with decorative lights and loudspeakers play Christmas music from each corner. The runners of the not-quite-a-marathon are coming into the finish in front of the main square and its giant Christmas tree, while the speedier ones are already sipping their celebratory beers with well-deserved medals around their neck.
To our eyes, delivered from the minus temperatures of central Europe a handful of days before Christmas, it is quite the contrast. The wind that blows in off the Atlantic is mild. The runners are lounging around in their shorts and vests. The window displays in the shops show snowy scenes and other reminders that our visual clues at this time of year come from places much further north, but even in these first hours we can tell this is going to be a Christmas with a difference.
Over the coming days we shall explore the island, taking in the volcanic landscapes, wallowing in the hot springs, and even taking a dip in ocean waters warmed by the Gulf Stream. Religion plays an important role in life here, so as well as the decorations in every town that feature reindeers and snowmen, candy canes and Santa Claus, each parish has its own creatively decorated crib and the songs from the loudspeakers mix carols with Mariah Carey and Wham.
To be in another country over a holiday that you also celebrate is to find the small differences and share them. We sample the sweet delicacies and the drinks that remind every Azorean of Christmas on their islands. The doors left open to display the nativity scenes to those who stroll the illuminated streets. The baked cod on Christmas Eve, washed down with Azorean wine.
And then there’s the cake. A few days after Christmas, we follow a hiking trail along the rocky western coast of the island. Here, on calmer days, you can swim in a bay where the Atlantic meets the outflow of thermal water from the island interior. Today, the waves seem to be rolling in all the way from Massachusetts, crashing against the rocks to create huge, spiralling fountains.
At a lookout point we unwrap our picnic sandwiches while what looks like an extended family has settled in at the neighbouring table. They have tupperware boxes and plastic plates and cutlery, bottles of wine and soft drinks, all to be enjoyed as the wind whips in off the ocean. At one point, one of the men comes over with a box in his hand.
“You are a long way from home,” he says with a smile. More a statement than a question. And then he puts the box on the table. “Traditional Christmas cake from São Miguel,” he says. “We make it early. And we make sure there’s enough to last through the holidays. Please, take it. A greeting from the Azores.”
We thank him and he smiles at us, nods with satisfaction, and goes back to his table where he pours himself another glass of wine. We sit and we nibble the cake as we watch the waves. With his kind gesture he has now rooted this place in our memory of this time of year. From now on, the taste of dried fruit, nutmeg and cinnamon at Christmas will take us back to the Azores and a picnic between the years, on that cliff top on an island in the middle of the ocean.
Paul Scraton
